The nothingness and its perpetual dust
by TotemundTabu
Summary: Fruk , Arthur's POV We are just the dust on the dressers of the cheap motels we spend the nights in, the dust that nobody really that take care of clean and stays there. Simply forever. Forever nothing, forever empty. Forever, though.


**The nothingness and its perpetual dust**

_This means nothing to me,  
'cause you are nothing to me.  
And it means nothing to me  
that you blew this away._ - Muse, _Uno_

* * *

We are nothing. And I don't care.

We are nothing. I really don't care, at all.

What we could be it's a bitter after taste that fills my mouth as you close the door behind you.

What we could have been it's just a thought that catches me as the strong cold wind in December spits on my face.

You don't mean so much to me to make me feel sad.

We are just the dust on the dressers of the cheap motels we spend the nights in, the dust that nobody really that take care of clean and stays there. Simply forever.

Forever nothing, forever empty. Forever, though.

It's clear to me, and it's clear because Anger and Frustration carved inside my bones and organs over the years, that you are not the one – but you are still the only one and I feel I can't have anybody else.

And how cheesy would it sound, if I told you "I want you, only you, just you" ? How ridiculous and laughable.

How pathetic.

But here I am, my heart in the briefcase and my mind fucked up by too many cigarettes and too little coffee, wanting you to open that door again, come to the bed and kiss me and say you will never let me go. Oh, but I know you won't.

Because I'm yours, somehow. I belong to you. And you would kill anyone on your way.

And I am the same, somehow.

And this is sick.

We act like children: wanting it all, stubbornly, but refusing to ask, refusing to compromise and admit – refuse to be more than this calm, reassuring nothing. But could we even act differently? Could we even learn a new way to live?

After all these centuries?

Considering what an old, vain and coward man you are, remembering how I find solace only keeping an aloof façade, adding how arrogantly you look down at me, thinking about how afraid I would constantly be, maybe, keeping this half-hearted and half-assed farce it's actually pretty much healthier.

And I know my own mind – I know how rotten and craven I am.

And I know you like Beauty, how much you surround yourself of gold baroque fake leaves and blue and purple blooming grape.

There is no space for something as ungraceful and raw as me between the things you love.

And I am not sure I can find a place for somebody who know me as deeply as I do.

Because you scare me and I annoy you and I am not so confident in the middle of all this we could really make some love grow.

Not an happy one, anyway.

Because something is already growing. Since centuries, I feel it.

It's like ivy, poison ivy, creeper ivy – it infests our hearts, climbing between us in the shadows, caving into our souls, growing silently and without permission.

It's the only love we could ever share, it's the only one we could both bear: one that leads to nothing, one that only eats you up alive.

We could always ignore it, exiling it in the thick darkness of our undisclosed thoughts, and we would be safe and whole. Never breaking, never shattering.

We lived more than thousand years.

We lived every war and still there is nothing that scares us more than pain.

How childish…

I still feel your scent on the sheets and on the pillow, I can remember and retrace where you touched me, the pressure of your fingers and the hunger of your mouth, I can tell because I – stupidly unwillingly – cherish every instant in which you move over me. I don't even need to look at the constellation of bruises and bitemarks, I don't need to control where your teeth sank nor where your lips caressed me.

The purple, the red, the white.

And how incredibly black our souls are.

And how incredibly deep our fear will always be.

I am surrounded by colours and memories and desires of something that never existed and already ceased to have chances to be. And I don't have anyone to blame except us, because nobody better than us know we are the responsible ones for our own misery.

We are nothing. And I don't care.

Because I don't believe in us, in you nor in me. Because I don't believe there is a way.

I am angry, though.

I would smash your head against that wall, I would kiss you and strangle you. I would fuck you and stab you at the same time.

Because you let it die. Because you let me kill it.

Because we never let it be.

And now we are nothing and nothing we will always be.

I am not sure if I want more, because, look at me, look at you, we are just coward children with old hearts and tired minds.

We are just dust of what we could have been and never found the bravery to be, we are the crumbles of feelings we let rotten and of words we never dared to say.

And I would just like you to hold me, like you did yesterday night.

And I would just like to hate you and scream you you mean nothing to me.

You never gave me the chance to be your everything, after all.

I miss your hair, golden curls of honey blond, and I find myself smiling at the ones you left in this bed. I miss your eyes, that are the colour of the deep sea that could make you drown, and you are exactly like that. I miss your hands – that are always soft - and I miss your lips – and your arrogant smirk - and I miss your hips – how they move just to sink into me .

I miss you being all over me. I feel empty where you was and now you are not.

And I would like to say I don't care, and I would like to pretend it's all fine… because that's what I do. But I can't forgive you all the love we wasted and all the chances we pissed on.

I can't forgive you that you are exactly like me and that you didn't risk for both of us.

I felt so frustrated, wanting you to prove me something, wanting you to give all your heart, so I would have felt safe in giving you a part of me. But nobody took the risk. And now? What did we earn from our self-righteous behaviour?

An eternal cycle of sex and war, an unbreakable loop of pleasure and sadness.

A circle of nothingness.

Oh, but I can't really leave you and you can't let me go.

And this is our black hole love.

You mean nothing to me, and I'm waiting for you. With desire, disappointment and anger.

I mean nothing to you, and you hope to see me soon. With eagerness, greed and sweetness.

We destroyed everything, but we hold our own ruins and rubble.

We feed our wrong love in secret and darkness.

Hoping one day it will bloom.

And, like a carnivorous plant, it will eat us. Whole.


End file.
